


Fair and Vera

by EvilFuzzy9



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Futanari, Hermaphrodites, Kinda, Other, Vanilla, Worldbuilding, Yuri, conlang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 05:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7921939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFuzzy9/pseuds/EvilFuzzy9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So one of their races views the other as food, at best, while the other has waged a bitter cold war against the former for years beyond count. That doesn't mean they can't learn to get along, does it?</p><p>Not if they have anything to say about it, at least.</p><p>[futa, futaxfem, rel. vanilla, waff, original]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair and Vera

The Rearbourn was a wide and swift-flowing river. A natural barrier it was, a defense nearly as formidable as the sheer northward face of the Yellow Mountains. Its course cut across nearly half the continent's breadth, from the Dweorgian lands where it was birthed from the joining of many of great northern rivers to the eastern coast where it spread into the vast  _Awavai_. Cold were its waters, and deep and dark; much lived beneath those black, glassy waves, and few were the places where any crossing could be attempted.  
  
There hadn't been a proper bridge over the river in... well, let us just say that it had been a very, very, VERY long time. This wasn't for lack of materials or engineering know-how on either side of the river. The lands north and south of the river were both wide and abundant in resources, inhabited by clever and practical peoples. But there were no bridges, and there weren't many places where one could ford it, either.  
  
Not without being shot on sight.  
  
Because the peoples who inhabited the lands on the opposite sides of the Rearbourn were not friends. At least on one side, the relationship of their respective realms was viewed as of one between countries at war—if only cold war. Admittedly the other side was less willing to dignify it as such. Calling it  _war_  would imply some level of independent value to the opponents, would suggest that the people who lived opposite their own were an actual threat.  
  
And Langfolk did not, as a rule, see humanity as anything resembling a threat.  
  
But regardless, it was difficult to cross the river at the best of times. While in many places the current slowed, and one could at least paddle a small boat or raft across the water, going from Amal to Sangera or from Sangera to Amal was generally dangerous. As a rule, a human going into Sangera was either a spy, a commando, or suicidal. Likewise a langer, a  _lenge_ , going into Amal did so typically only to "hunt".  
  
Amalite rangers, march wardens, and border patrols were not inclined to hear out one who came from across the river. Their duty was to kill anyone who tried to enter Amal from Sangera, to kill them without question or hesitation. To do any less would be to risk death and destruction for scores more than just themselves. Even if the border-crosser was a human, even an Amalite bearing the royal seal, they would be shot and killed. More than once had their own kind been turned against them by the enemy, or used as a lure or diversion for a band of hunters.  
  
Still, it wasn't impossible to cross the border. Certainly not if you had the right skills and connections. And Fairhair Bishmont could claim both of those things. She had experience, and there was little in the waters of Rearbourn that could or would threaten her. She was able to cloak herself in shadows, as well, and to move nearly unseen beneath the new moon. So, trusting that her opposite number had made the preparations, and knowing that her magic should suffice to conceal her from all but the sharpest scrutiny, Bishmont quietly and confidently disembarked from her raft.  
  
The vessel had been noiseless in the water, truly silent in a way that was possible only with the intervention of her obfuscating and obscuring  _essenge_. And her feet were silent on the shore as well, bending nary a blade of grass in spite of their not inconsiderable size. She towered over even the tallest humans, yet she seemed as ephemeral and insubstantial as a shadow in silver starlight.  
  
She passed by the watch tower, a square-sided construction of wood planks and stout poles rising a little over twice her height. Up above she saw a flicker of torchlight, and under a wide, sloped roof she caught the shadow of a human standing watch. They made no sign that they saw her. Not a very good watchman.  
  
Smiling, Bishmont slipped nimbly over the ten foot high palisade which ringed this riverside fort. It was easy for her to swing her hand over the top, and the points of the wooden stakes that comprised the wall were but a mild nuisance. She dropped down the other side of the palisade with very little trouble, and as stealthily as the softest whisper of a midnight breeze she made her way to the central structure of the fort.  
  
She passed dilapidated barracks and an armory door barred with a half rusting lock. She kept her eyes on the other watchtowers and slipped herself from one shadow to the next, but there was no one looking in over the fort. None of them expected anybody to have slipped in past them. Within a very short time of surmounting the wall she had reached the central "keep" of the fort, for lack of a better term.  
  
This was where the commander of the base lived, usually. But on this day, at least, she knew that they would have acquiesced the command building to a person of much higher rank and authority. Beside that, this was a small fort on one of the least threatened avenues, the straightest road beyond it leading straight up to the mountains and to further, better defended strongholds. Few soldiers were committed here, merely a token force, and they mostly to serve as an early warning of any invading force.  
  
Not that the Langfolk were inclined to field genuine armies against the human nation of Amal. Most of Bishmont's people thought very little of the human race, and not without some fair cause, at least as far as relative potency and apparent intellect. Personally, she thought her fellows were stubborn and willfully oblivious.  
  
Humanity...  
  
Well, they were  _at least_  equal to the dwarves, from all that Bishmont had seen, and this was no small assertion. But then, if she actually convinced her people of this they would most likely not turn around and repent of all the things they did to humans. That would require changes of lifestyle, very considerable upheaval of world view and standards.  
  
In short, it would not happen. Still, Bishmont admired humans for what they were. And one in particular she admired more than anyone of her own race, her own species.  
  
Bishmont slipped into the room as had been planned long beforehand, and she slid the door silently shut behind her. It locked with the softest  _clink_. She looked to where her host sat, the one who had invited her and facilitated her arrival with careful assignments of watch and guard.  
  
 _Amalzu Turwi_  sat in a chair in a room more empty than not, a spare room for miscellaneous use. Heir apparent to the throne of Malak Urumbe, crown princess of the united dominion of North Amal, she was clad in such garments as one might expect of a daughter of the most powerful human royal family in the north of the world between the seas.  
  
Vera Marale Urunwe, "Laughter Lovely of Face and Commanding in Speech". Such was her name and its meaning, rich and lyrical and perfectly fitting its owner. In the woman's eyes Bishmont could see a twinkling of her namesake, and both of them smiled as one.  
  
" _Ik'tz'al_ ," intoned Vera, addressing her in velvety, exotic Amalwa." _Dhu iki oturu, iki hal zu uturu ud. O te atara oturu Bishmont-tar uturu, u tara uturu oturu._ "  
  
Fairhair Bishmont, viceroy of Dulcia, smiled and nodded in acknowledgement of this greeting, courteous but with a proud intonation. The cunnock recognized this old manner of speech, a mix of poetically circuitous and bluntly direct, with that curious penchant for bewildering wordplay and a cheeky, deliberately chosen phonetic repetition that could trip up even a lifelong speaker of the language.  
  
 _Welcome. Yes, at thy service am I, and love of my life art thou, Bishmont dear, whom I cherish._  
  
This was how Bishmont elected to interpret what her lover said. It was not a direct translation, because their languages were quite different; a wording that was sensible in Amalwa would seem like gibberish in Lengua-Dweorgian.  
  
Bishmont smiled.  
  
 _"Salira, santara. Ik'tz'al."_  
  
Vera laughed and cocked her hips, eyeing Bishmont slyly.  
  
"'Good ass to fuck,'" she said amusedly, now using the lingua franca of the northern world, the High Dweorgian tongue with its slight lenge corruptions. "That's what you're trying to say with  _salira, santara_ , isn't it?"  
  
" _Dhu_ ," said Bishmont. "Yes, it is."  
  
"A fine use," said Vera. "If not nearly literal.  _Ne daba i susuru sana ha marnarg uturu._  'You have a lovely posterior desirable for copulation.' That is how I would have put it, personally."  
  
Still chuckling, she looked up into Bishmont's eyes.  
  
It wasn't often that the princess, who could stand a good and round seven foot with only a slight stretch, had to look up to meet someone's eyes, let alone crane her neck, but this was the norm when dealing with Langfolk. Bishmont was a cunnock of average size, nine and a half feet tall, otherworldly to Amalite perceptions with her pale skin, ice blue eyes, and long, smooth golden hair. Even the Patra were not so fair as this, and they were  _certainly_  nowhere near as tall.  
  
Vera smiled at her lover, the only one she had found to equal her intellect and beauty. This was her  _iwaa'z'utar_ , the mate of her soul.  _Iki atara dazud._  It was inevitable, even FATED, their love—or so Vera would put it. But she was ever stubborn and willful, unyielding before critique, uncaring what others thought of her.  
  
" _Ma verava_ , my Vera," said Bishmont, looking down into Vera's eyes. She smiled wanly. "Do not tease me. I have abstained this long for your pride."  
  
"You haven't fornicated since our last meeting?" said Vera, looking pleasantly surprised. "My, but you really  **do**  know how to flatter a woman."  
  
She said this lightly, making it seem no more than a jest, but her eyes betrayed something a touch deeper and more profound. For the majority of Amalites this would be something taken for granted, that one would couple only with their lover, but Vera knew enough of lenge, of the Langfolk of Sangera, to be genuinely moved by this.  
  
For a lenge to go without copulation was like a human going without conversation. It was a fundamental social interaction for them, and the majority of their kind could no more abstain from it than most humans could go without talking to others. Sex was how Langfolk interacted with others. They  _needed_  it for their mental and emotional health.  
  
Bishmont smiled more warmly, and she bent her knees. The blonde cunnock was like a lithe little giant, built in such a way that she was of human proportion and not unseemingly gangly; because of this she was in a number of ways more substantial than Vera, despite her proportional slenderness. And Vera found this to be most noticeable in the swell of Bishmont's breast under her traveling cloak.  
  
Vera smiled, imagining what Bishmont might be wearing underneath.  
  
Without hesitation she stepped forward and craned her neck to plant a soft, welcoming kiss on her lover's lips. It was one of those little things Langfolk did with their black magic that Vera's lips could match Bishmont's perfectly despite their relative sizes. They toyed with proportion and perception without even realizing it, matching themselves unconsciously to the bodies of their partners.  
  
Vera could now kiss Bishmont with her head level while they both stood up straight. It wasn't that Bishmont had shrunk herself or enlarged Vera, but more like a tactile and proprioceptory illusion, a subtle distortion somewhere between sense and substance that made their bodies feel perfectly compatible in all the ways that mattered when making love. An outside observer would have been baffled to look at them, but for them it was natural and seamless.  
  
Their lips broke apart. Vera still looked into Bishmont's eyes, smiling.  
  
" _Yo ne sansuru narg u lomeca u ywite u nente zukhal oturumbe, udhud,_ " said Vera, slipping into a fully royal manner of speech and address. She said it lowly and sultrily, and it took Bishmont a moment to parse the meaning.  _"Iki santara i oturumbe ukhal. Te kala sansuru zute. Sana otsu!"_  
  
With the last sentence she shifted to a more casual, deferential mode.  
  
 _Most assuredly we lust for thy ass and tits and pussy and cock. Make love to us, thrall. Your lust is accepted. Fuck me!_  
  
She added more.  
  
 _"Sasana bara. Laka santara, ho ila nente zute dhu."_  
  
It was almost imploring, though still her words held pride and dignity regardless of any superficial obeisance in language.  
  
 _Fuck me hard. I want sex, and I need your cock._  
  
Bishmont smiled at Vera, and in a single fluid motion cast her traveling cloak aside. Underneath it she wore garments that were almost criminally modest by the standards of Langfolk, but well and truly racy to Amalites like Vera. With the cloak on, Bishmont appeared such that she could be taken for an effeminate male Lenge, as most of the few male Langfolk were, but now it could be seen that she was female.  
  
Female, or a cunnock.  
  
The front of her blouse was scooped low, a square window reaching down from her neck. The bottom half of the opening was crossed with a fine, transparent weave like fishnet, shading most of the exposed cleavage. She was slender by the standards of her people, and her bosom did not have quite the obscene, voluminous swell of most Langfolk, so there was less to show than there might have been. Either way the blouse came to a rest just around the flare of hips, and from there its duties were taken over by a skirt.  
  
It was not a long skirt as Amalites reckoned such things. Indeed it only went just past the knees, while most such garments in Amal went down at least to the shins; for comparison the hem of Vera's dress stopped halfway further down her lower leg than Bishmont's, and Vera's garb would have in the capital been considered fashionably provocative. Yet in Sangera a skirt as long as Bishmont's would be viewed as indecently conservative, even in northernmost Langlia where the poisonous frosts of Gobelind lay thick on the earth year round.  
  
Vera thought it was fascinating how the standards of their two peoples could vary so widely, even on such simple matters as that. But then the Langfolk were not at all human, not even remotely, howsoever they looked and superficially behaved. They were almost universally fair-skinned like the Patra, but their colorations otherwise varied much more widely than in humans or even dwarves. Even the most basic facts of procreation differed greatly.  
  
Langfolk could copulate as humans did, indeed preferred to do so, and they did it with a considerable depth of creativity unbound by things like decency or restraint. But they were not viviparous as dwarves or humans. Vera knew only a little about lenge lifecycles, but she did know that rather than giving live birth, Langfolk somehow produced their unborn young within some kind of gelatinous egg or coccoon (Bishmont called it a  _geleggon_ ) and the young would gestate within those...  _things_  until they were full grown, and then emerge completely formed, knowing everything they needed to know to function in society.  
  
It was, to her understanding, an arcane and most intricate process. She did not know if this was the natural means by which they procreated, or some kind of artificial method to free up the parents so they might continue to indulge without need for responsibility or prudence. Of course she had asked Bishmont on numerous occasions for elucidation, being at heart a person of inquisitive disposition, but there was only so much that she could explain. Some of the details were deep beyond understanding, or so trivial that Langfolk took them for granted and did not themselves deeply inquire or feel need to mention.  
  
Still, it helped to illustrate just how alien she and her lover were, that however frequently and enjoyably they might be able to fornicate, some of the most basic aspects of their respective methods of life and reproduction were  _that_  distantly removed from any remote similarity to each other. Nonetheless Vera loved Bishmont, and she would accept no other as a partner or spouse. Bishmont likewise loved Vera, and she would do anything to make her happy.  
  
They smiled at each other.  
  
" _Suru sana osshal,_ " said Bishmont in a soft, subservient tone. "My unworthy self wants to fuck."  
  
 _"Sansuru otsu. Laka u ila u suru i ute,"_  said Vera. "I lust. You are wanted, needed, and desired."  
  
Bishmont looked around slowly, casting radiant blue eyes over their surroundings.  
  
"Ng... I'm worried, though," she muttered. "What if one of your people—?"  
  
"They will not walk in on us," Vera dismissively interjected. "Only Tzinte and Lebera came here with me, and them I gave leave to indulge in marital bliss. I need no further protection than they!" she added, seeing Bishmont's concerned look. "I'm no defenseless child, and we're still within the borders of Amal."  
  
"On the outskirts," said Bishmont. "Hunting parties aren't unheard of in these parts. We're north of the defended line. This is a debatable region at best, and you know it."  
  
"We are in the belly of a fortress," said Vera dryly. "Besides, if I bring more guards, then there is a greater chance of you being found. Tzinte, at least, I can trust not to try and kill you on sight if I tell him not to."  
  
"I see," said Bishmont, not sounding convinced. "And Lebera?"  
  
There was a pause, and a rather long one at that.  
  
"...She respects my authority," Vera said at last. "If not always my judgement. She will not hurt you, not while I'm around."  
  
Bishmont cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"You talk as if  _I'm_  the one who needs protection from your servants. Most would say it is they who need protection from me. Langfolk are not loved in these lands, and there's good reason for that."  
  
"You have not seen Lebera fight," said Vera, smirking. "So I forgive your assumption. You are  _lenge umbe u bara_ , big and strong like all your kind, but there are stronger than you. My  _Karakkadon_ and  _Z'wemalor_  are the pride and joy of Amal."  
  
"Thunderstorm and Wildfire," breathed Bishmont, grasping at the hem of Vera's dress. "Portentous names, for humans. You must have an immensely high opinion of them."  
  
"So I do."  
  
Now Vera disrobed. Her skin was smooth and brown and soft and sensual. A slim frame she wore beneath her dress, tall and lithe. In youth she had been ungainly and awkward, bony and gangly, and as a teenager she had been all knees and elbows, stretched out almost comically with vastly overlong arms and legs. But now, as a woman nearing the midpoint of her third decade, she was much more rounded, much more filled out and seemly.  
  
By Lenge standards she was short and young and skinny still, but for a human she was tall—taller even than most men, and her proportions were reasonably shapely. Her breasts were round and pert, modest handfuls of tender flesh; her hips were a womanly swell, less robust than some but still respectably well suited to the live childbirths of humans. Bright, golden, almond-shaped eyes peered up at Bishmont. High cheekbones framed full, expressive lips.  
  
Bishmont felt a stirring of the loins at this sight. She looked down to survey Vera's naked womanhood, and she saw the front of her own skirt tenting and rising as she did so. Laboriously, almost painfully constrained, her bosom heaved within her blouse. Panting, Bishmont gestured. She channeled her black magic and changed the substance of her clothing to something less hindersome, less solid and constricting. The last of her clothes melted right off her body, sublimating into a cool vapor that left no trace of its presence, and soon vanished altogether like smoke in a breeze.  
  
Bishmont exposed her skin, her body. She looked very pale next to Vera, even with the ruddy flush of lust and arousal spreading throughout her soft, smooth, silky hide. Her eyes were a hauntingly pale ice blue, almost gray, and her hair was like a threaded alloy of silver and gold, white-yellow as the sun and soft in a way that was equaled by little else. This complexion was the norm for Langfolk. Only a very few were even as dark as Vera, who was at the palest end of the spectrum of Amali coloration, as royalty being able to afford the luxury of lesser sunlight than those who must by need work out of doors under the open heavens.  
  
Vera gazed hungrily and longingly and lovingly at Bishmont's nude form. The cunnock's breasts were a fair deal vaster and weightier than Vera's, yet on her significantly taller and necessarily more substantial frame, they actually seemed smaller, at least relative to their owner's body. Vera then looked down to Bishmont's cock, which stood huge, rigid, and throbbing above the blonde's pussy.  
  
"I see you are as imposing as ever,  _Bisha_."  
  
Such was Vera's pet name for the Lang Cunnock Dulcia, Fairhair Bishmont: a pun on the lenge's surname and the Amalite word  _basha_ , or 'white'. It was debatable how clever the wordplay was, objectively, but Bishmont thought it was amusing. She smiled at her human lover and spread her arms and legs slowly, gracefully.  
  
"My body is ready," the blonde purred. " _I_ am ready. Take me."  
  
Vera reached out and grabbed a handful of Bishmont's bosom, causing the blonde to sigh and shiver contentedly. Though larger and physically much stronger, the Lenge gladly submitted herself to Vera's ravishing, laying herself down on the floor and spreading her legs, presenting as much of her body as she could to her lover. Her phallus stood tall and thickly erect, throbbing, twitching, and pulsing with a superhuman potence and vitality.  
  
If not for the  _essenge_  Bishmont wielded as one of the Langfolk, the size of the cock which rose from her loins would have been an impossible barrier to intercourse with Vera. Her body was built to mate with other Langfolk, and even if she was small for one of her kind, she was certainly taller and probably more massive than just about any human to ever live. Her cock was as big around as Vera's thigh, and at least as long as her forearm.  
  
But the affinity of black magic to change and  _alter_  enabled their bodies to fit as well as line up. Vera could push Bishmont down to the floor and kiss her and straddle her waist. She could bear her loins slowly down, teasingly down onto the tip of Bishmont's manhood. She could spread the lips of her sex and slide herself down further, wrap the walls of her womanhood around that great pillar of a penis and fit it all into herself without any trouble at all, not even more than a little pleasurable discomfort.  
  
Bishmont could make their bodies meld and match. She could melt them together, fuse them at the loins, and stretch and squash and shift and distort. She disregarded the limits of space and matter, reach and flexibility. Langfolk dealt in constantly shifting values, flexible relativity, mutable laws of nature. Nothing was absolute. Nothing of physical substance and temporal material, at any rate.  
  
Vera pressed her mouth to Bishmont's and thrust her tongue in between her lips. She caressed her lover's body. The mounds of pale, pinkened breasts fitted conveniently into her palms, and her fingers worked themselves deep through the pliable, yielding tissues. She chafed nipples and kneaded soft globes, shaping them idly as she ground her loins slowly, torturously up and down.  
  
Bishmont lay passive and accepting of Vera's attentions. For all her rank as governor, as Lang Cunnock Dulcia of Sangera Angrea's capital province, and the teachings of her people that Langfolk were a superior race and humans scarcely more than beasts, she preferred to be the submissive one in their relationship. It was exhilarating and quite unlike any other experience, submitting herself to the power and mercy of a human, let alone one as lovely, clever, and stubbornly willful as Vera Marale Urunwe.  
  
 _Smack, smack, smack._  
  
Vera's pelvis smote Bishmont's. Her sex was stretched in a numbingly pleasurable manner around the girth of Fairhair's long, thick cock. Her hands sank into the softness of her lover's breast, her mouth flooded with the sweet and fleshy taste of cutely parted lips, her tongue brusquely molesting another in the sultry damp of Bisha's maw. They moaned together, slurping and slapping and lustily writhing.  
  
For a moment their lips broke apart.  
  
" _Santara zute, sangera zutsu,_ " breathed Bishmont, smiling dreamily.  
  
Vera looked so pleased she could have immediately redoubled the kiss. But instead she raised her hips on Bishmont's cock, before thrusting back down, taking her lover's rod up to the hilt with a wet, meaty clap. She moaned deeply, rolling her head on her shoulders, and smiling coyly she bowed her head to plant a kiss on the small of Bishmont's neck.  
  
"You are my lover," she agreed in an amused tone. "And I _am_  your rapist. What a crisp summation of our relationship."  
  
Bishmont smiled, a rosy blush adorning her cheeks.  
  
"I love you, Vera," she said. " _Vera ii tarwi zutsu._ "  
  
"That's a dubious translation," Vera groaned, purring sultrily as she rocked herself atop her lover. "' _Tara Vera otsu'_  would be—ngh—the more faithful."  
  
Bishmont allowed herself a moment's amusement at how even in the throes of passion Vera was ready to correct her. It was one of the things she found so wonderful and amusing about the woman, her keen intellect and unflinching pride. It was held by most Langfolk as a given that humans were simply animals, beasts of prey and burden inferior to them in every meaningful way. But Vera was proof to the contrary, at least in terms of cleverness.  
  
Still, this didn't mean she was  **always**  right.  
  
"I said it such for emphasis," said Bishmont simply.  
  
She did not see Vera's cheeks go  _red_  precisely. Although the woman was fair-skinned by her own people's standards, her face was hardly so colorless as to show the swelling of blood vessels with nearly the exact tint of the blood that they carried. It was not quite red or pink. Still there was unmistakable coloring, a shifting and deepening of hues, a flush and a darkening.  
  
Moreover, she could  _feel_  the heat of the woman's cheeks on her bosom. So, smiling, Bishmont ran a hand through Vera's black, curly hair. She felt as much as heard the wordless grumble of vexation, a stubborn refusal to admit that Bishmont might have had a point.  
  
That was one of the things she found the most endearing about Vera. The most  _adorable_ , even if Vera would splutter indignantly at such a description.  
  
With a grunt Bishmont thrust up into the princess, and they both forgot everything but each other, everything but their bodies, hot and hungry and tightly, lovingly entwined.  
  
Together, they came.  
  
They came.  
  
 _Together._

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Here's a bit of original writing with original characters in an original setting, in the same 'verse as Lord of Manor Nocens and (to a lesser extent) Lang Cunnock Lanigav. It's not really an especially smutty piece, I'll admit, and in hindsight I probably could have dialed back the world-building exposition. But I can barely help myself, hehe~
> 
> Published: (on Patreon) 8-29-16 (everywhere else) 8-31-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


End file.
